The Harlequin show
by Wingless Rain
Summary: They're all here, and for your eyes and reading pleasure only. Join the fun.
1. Interview with an emo

* * *

Interview with an emo 

-

It is a talkshow! In Sonicland!

"This is it," the narrator calls out from his vantage point on stage. He's shrouded by darkness - it's impossible to discern any facial features, and seated in a non-descript chair. "This is the moment you've all been waiting for; the moment that is going to change your world forever and ever. Today, I'm going to interview Shadow, whose last name is Hedgehog."

The crowd roars.

"But that's not all, no," he slowly gets out of the chair, "not in the least. I'll take you on a journey through his head, his memories, and his intentions. We'll all walk away from this a little wiser - I guarantee it." He snaps the fingers on his left hand, and a catchy tune plays for a few seconds.

A black hedgehog, no more than four-foot tall, walks in from the left of the screen. He's dressed, because that's how people like him, and looks sad for no real reason, as opposed to the bitter and twisted side he should have developed years ago.  
Basically, he's a mess, and not good for anything.

"Hello, foolish creatures," Shadow mutters, baring long fangs, presumably used for vampiric acts of savage passion and manlove that, more often than not, involve preteen boys, blue hedgehogs, or bats with epic tits.  
It takes him almost two minutes to inch his way across the stage and into one of two empty chairs next to the narrator.

"That," he points his right index towards a glass of water, "is not the kind of liquid I imbibe on a regular basis to preserve my vital functions and twisted sex appeal." The finger remains up, aimed for the glass like it's a deadly enemy.

The narrator doesn't seem to notice, too busy pacing in a circle around Shadow. His face is still concealed.  
"Yes, I know you prefer the taste of virgins, but," he comes to a stop behind the black creature of obsidian perfection, "none of your friends qualify, and even if they did, I doubt they'd let me tap them."

"The ultimate lifeform does not appreciate sarcasm," Shadow replies after a few seconds of careful consideration. The crowd cheers, and someone performs a drumroll. "Now, why do you desire my presence?" His voice is low, like a snarl.

"Well," a graceful leap brings the narrator into his old chair. His head twists around like a machine, and his eyes fall on Shadow, "there are a couple of reasons why you're here, Shadow, the first of all being your fans," the crowd goes wild as the f-word's spoken, but quite down after a little while, at which point the narrator continues, "and other reasons include, but are not limited to; your personality, or lack of one, your dick-size, your sexual preference, your rugged manliness, and your ethnicity."

"I have no need for either of those, since I am the ultimate lifeform," Shadow comments as his arms fold across his chest. He glares out across the audience, and everything falls silent.

"Oh, but that's only what you think," the narrator snaps the fingers on his left hand once more, and the onlookers are treated to graphic pictures of Shadow engaging in all known and unknown lethal sins of the flesh, from banging preteens, to getting banged by horses, dogs, preteens, girls with strapons, plates of food, pandas with a passion for evil, and fat, roughly egg-shaped, elderly gentlemen. It ends with a nasty picture of a certain red-skinned echidna whipping Shadow's flayed back with a whip of epic proportions, while a twin-tailed wonderboy busies himself watching and enjoying the show. "And that's just a tiny amount of the things your fans love about you."

Shadow looks shaken, like his soul was ripped from his body.  
"The ultimate lifeform would never submit to such sinful and barbarous acts," he reaches for the glass, "at least not while people are watching." His face twitches violently as he experiences a rerun of the images. "How can these people live with themselves?" He bursts out suddenly, and his face keeps twitching.

A silent chuckle escapes the narrator's lips, but he remains as expressionless as ever.  
"Perversion is part of human nature, as is the need for release," Shadow cringes at his words. "All urges must be submitted to, regardless of how obscure or twisted, or the individual will suffer badly."

"You speak madness, but the ultimate lifeform decides to forgive you, due to your immense charisma," Shadow says, then drains the glass in two gulps.

"Yes, I get that a lot," he coughs, then gets right to it. "What do you think of your fans' view of you, as a person, fictional or otherwise?"

"The ultimate lifeform thinks that they should all stop watching anime, and base their characters on realistic people, with realistic proportions, eyes, ears, hair color, names, and personalities," he drops the glass, to prove some sort of point. It impacts with the floor, and shatters into a hundred pieces. "He also believes that it's not a good idea for virgins to write porn, or attempt to write porn, since it tends to be horrible in all ways that is physically possible." The crowd hollers, and random items are thrown on-stage.  
Shadow swings his head around again, and silence is once more.

"Good answer," the narrator nods. "We'll be right back after a short break."

-

VT2 - 2006


	2. Commercial break

* * *

First commercial break 

-

SEGA of America proudly unveils Sonic: Noir.

Follow the blue, spiked hero, as he quests through a world that isn't as real as it should be. One could say it's a very virtual world, one filled to the brim with offensive language, mildly comical violence, dystopian surroundings, and action scenes ripped from famous movies.  
The journey will lead him to hell, but probably not back. Always at his side is a band of like-minded individuals; Rotor, the friendly and constantly swearing walrus; Tails, a teen with an attitude; Knuckles, ghetto-nigger with a flair for bone-crunching action.

This epic story will lead absolutely nowhere, and is set to continue forever, fueled by profanity, semi-profound statements, and watered-down noir.

Sonic: Noir - Available on fanfiction dot net - 2001-2003.

-

VT2 - 2006


	3. Interview with an emo part two

* * *

Interview with an emo - part two 

-

Flashy camera tricks and a catchy jingle greets everyone, along with plenty of applauds and cheering.

"We're back," the narrator announces as the camera focuses on him, "and we're better than ever."

A loud cough is heard from out of view, presumably from Shadow. Two seconds later, the camera's zoomed out slightly, and both of them are now in full view, however, the narrator's still shrouded in darkness.

"So, Shadow," the hedgehog doesn't look entertained in the least by the narrator's words, "have you ever been called a nigger?"

Shadow snickers, then strokes his chin with his left hand.  
"Yeah, a couple of times," he starts tapping his chair's armrest. "Four fans insisted on labeling me nigger, probably because of my skin color. Two of them had me speak only ebonics, and constantly refer to the author-inserts as niggers. It was very offensive to everyone involved."

"I claim that all niggers are racists at heart," the narrator states it like it's a fact of life, and it almost looks like he's smirking.

"The ultimate lifeform concurs with that statement," Shadow almost whispers after a short moment of thought, then he reaches for the narrator's glass.

"It's good to know that you stand somewhere," another question slowly takes shape, and Shadow shivers once more. "How much ass have you tasted this far?"

"That's a very dumb question," the black one replies, hand clutching the glass. It looks like it could shatter at any moment, "but I'm compelled to answer it for the sake of closure. If, by tasting, you mean just tasting, then a lot - more than what should be possible during a single lifetime. The funny thing is that they all taste the same."

"Should we class you as a rapist, a pedophile, a fag, bisexual, a lesbian, or a generally perverted person?"

There's a snap, then small cracks form on the glass.  
"Probably all of them," a machinelike movement brings the glass to Shadow's mouth. "I blame the fans for it."

The narrator pulls out a deck of cards from one of his pockets, then places it on the table between them.  
"Want me to predict your future?" it's spread masterfully, in the shape of a fan. "It's free, painless, and accurate. Just pick a card, then show it to me."

The glass is drained, then dropped. It, too, shatters into fragments.  
"Sure, why not," Shadow pulls the central card, then places it face-up. It's a pair of wings; one white, the other black. The feathers look like they're made of metal, and they flutter in an unearthly wind that should not be.

"The wingless, of course," the narrator declares. "You'll star in several new projects, and your attitude will change, until you're no longer recognizable. From rival, to antihero, to rebel without a cause. Just as the wind turns, so will you. Your image will keep shifting, and you along with it."

Shadow's about to say something, but the narrator interrupts him with a deadly glare.  
"Art is dead. Art is no more," he withdraws a silver handgun from one of his pockets, and a round with arcane symbols etched onto the casing. "What do you want to say to the audience before we wrap this up?"

Shadow smirks. His hands reach for the gun and the bullet.  
"I regret everything," he speaks as he loads the gun. It's slowly raised to his right temple, "and I do mean everything." A loud bang, then Shadow's head partially explodes in a mess of red, gray, and white that stains the floor and wall to his left.

The narrator is unfazed, and pay's Shadow's convulsing corpse no mind. It slowly slides out of the chair.  
"We'll return in a moment, with another guest of honor."

-

VT2 - 2006


	4. Second commercial break

* * *

Second commercial break 

-

SEGA of central Europe delivers yet another masterpiece!

A bizarre story of Monopoly games, ultimate lifeforms, metaphors, and manlove. Join Shadow, and squirm as he fights against his own sexual nature. How will the tale unfold? If you're prepared to wait a month in-between chapters, you might just find out!

Males only. A nearby dictionary is recommended for maximum reading pleasure.

Perfect Play - available on fanfiction dot net - 2006-2007.

-

VT2 - 2006


	5. Tittylicious

* * *

Tittylicious 

-

The stage's changed slightly.  
Shadow's nailed to the wall behind it, and someone decided to gather the mess he caused into a small pile beneath him. A tilted cross has been drawn on his chest with white ink.

"And that ends the first chapter," the narrator almost whispers the words. He's still sitting in his chair, shuffling through his cards. "The next guest isn't as popular as the previous one, but is still quite famous, for obvious reasons," he gestures with his left hand. "Welcome, Rouge the bat."

Each and every male audience member roars wildly as she enters from the left of the stage, wings folded neatly behind her back. She's dressed in the same pink-and-black outfit she always wears.  
She spins around gracefully, then looks at the narrator.  
"If I were an Inquisitor character," her voice is low, like she's looking to score, "would you give my chest-location four points of natural armor?"

The audience laughs like complete retards.  
"Six," the narrator motions for her to take a seat, "three per boob." More laughter follows, mixed with a couple of loud and annoying whistles. Things get messier by the second, and Rouge strides over to the chair Shadow died in.

Innumerable eyes attach themselves to Rouge's upper torso.  
"I can't help but notice how popular you are among teenagers," he looks out across the sea of fleshy waste known as the audience, then snaps his head to the left, to confront the bat. He doesn't look even slightly impressed by Rouge's slutty outfit or oversized tits. "Do you consider it acceptable that people assume that you, a life-time adventurer, martial artist, and treasure hunter, are easy to bring to both tears and moments of joy?"

She sniffs, then shifts around on her chair.  
"I don't have a choice," Rouge leans forward, fingers tapping her knees. "Must be because of my gender, or the tiny mind present in everyone these days."

"Perception isn't something humans are known for," five cards are placed face-down on the table. "How much, exactly do you love your fans' view of you as a person?"

"You should have rephrased that question," she seats herself upright. "Made it into something like 'what do think of your fans' constant need to portray you as a weak-willed-, immature-, sex-crazed-, big-breasted bitch with a need for strong, supportive, male characters that share your interests, and kind friends to rant to about your feelings?' That would have sounded so much better, and perfectly fitted tonight's mood."

The crowd shows its displeasure by staying absolutely silent.

"Then answer your own question," a sixth card joins the five already in play, only it's face-up. The universal symbol in the top-right corner identifies it as the king of hearts, but the image is a bloody scythe that looks real enough to grab and reap people with.

Rouge sighs.  
"I find it both sad and discouraging that the new generation still holds onto ancient traditions," she shifts around on the chair once more, and ends up with her right elbow dug into the table, head leaned on her arm. "Women are supposed to care, love and feel, not fight, stay independent, or travel. We're slaves to our own minds - our memories mostly. Blame it on archaic rituals, traditions, and customs if you want; I'll still keep blaming it on our inability to let go and forget the past."

Seventh card, a dirty window - the nine of diamonds - is placed next to her elbow.  
"Human nature is the true criminal," he almost spits the words. "It's fitting that the weak and kind treat to the weaker and the young. Forget the fact that muscles have nothing to do with firing a gun."

Eight, which flips over to become a black rose - jack of clubs.  
"Well," Rouge mumbles. It's obvious that she doesn't believe her words will ever have a meaning to anyone who hears them, "it could be worse. They could be adding these erroneous properties to their own dreamlands."

Nine, death himself, draped in a black cloak that flows in an unearthly wind. Its skull-face almost leers, and the symbol reveals that it's the king of spades.  
"It's good that they aren't," the other five cards are turned in turn. Two of clubs, a collection of bloody tooth; seven of diamonds, two revolvers; three of hearts, a collection of handgun rounds; jack of diamonds, a red rose; and five of hearts, a number of snowflakes. His right index taps the table slowly. "Didn't quite get the result I wanted, but this isn't the first time it's happened, and it won't be the last."

"Nice pictures," Rouge comments as she feasts her eyes on the cards.

Only now does the narrator look up at the camera.  
"Buy into the cult; join those that live for commercial breaks," he whispers, then a different catchy jingle is played as everything is swallowed by darkness.

-

VT2 - 2006


	6. Third commercial break

* * *

Third commercial break 

-

SEGA of America gives you Sonic: Sketchy.

This is one of those tales your mother warned you about. A disjointed adventure, set partially inside the mind of someone who should be labeled criminally insane.  
Where does it lead? No one knows.  
What's it about? No one knows.  
What's the plan? No one knows.  
Will there be free cookies? No one knows.

Is he the voice inside your head? Probably.  
Is he the sex that you provide? Well, maybe.  
Is he the hate you try to hide? Not really.  
Is he the lie that you believe? Oh yes, he most certainly is.

Are you self-destructive enough to embark on this journey? Do you dare to be bombarded by an amount of questions so vast that it defies your imagination?

Sonic: Sketchy - available on angelfire dot com and fanfiction dot net - 2001-2018+.

-

VT2 - 2006


	7. Too Tittylicious

* * *

Too Tittylicious 

-

A sweet violin plays as the show returns with a vengeance.  
About two people feel the need to applaud like idiots, while another one shouts profanity at the top of her lungs. The majority of the audience stays silent, however, for reasons unknown.

The narrator somehow convinced Rouge to play poker with him, and, as is to be expected, Rouge doesn't look entertained.  
"Damn you!" she curses as the camera zooms in on her final card - two skulls, or six of hearts. The bat's down on her luck, as she's got nothing of value on hand, while the narrator's got four jacks.

"Today's my day, it seems," he collects the deck, then passes it into his right hand. There's a a pile of coins to his left, which is soon joined by five more shiny pieces from the center of the table. Rouge's got a pile, as well, but it's tiny compared to the narrator's mountain. "Had enough yet?"

Rouge cocks her head from left to right, and begins to chew on her lower lip.  
"Never!" she calls out, then snaps the fingers on her right hand. He looks very pleased, and shuffles the cards for another game. "I won't give up until I'm broke. Hit me again, albino freak!"

"Your words warm me," he deals her five face-down cards, then deals himself another five. "It costs two to play this round. Pay up or withdraw." He strokes his pile lovingly, and slowly gathers five coins which he tosses, one by one, into the center of the table.

The bat looks ready to give in, and successfully resists her mind's attempts to keep her from doing anything foolish.  
"Fine, vampire," five of her coins join the growing pile, then her right hand passes over the five cards before her, retrieving them all like a professional. One look, and her poker face is no more. "You're so dead this time."

He remains as neutral as ever, and places two of his cards face-down.  
"You sound pretty sure of yourself. Care to make a nice bet?" Rouge nods once, then discards one of her cards. "One switch, winner takes it all. However, the winner must also fulfill one of the loser's wishes." She glares at him, and he starts tapping the table with his right index finger.

A moment of careful consideration and silence follows.

"Well," Rouge starts tapping as well. She leans backwards, sighs once, then glances at her cards a few times. "No matter what, I'll still lose." They both stop tapping instantly, and gather their respective piles. A large mountain forms, slowly, as they take turns flipping coins into the table's center. "Now, give me a card."

The last coin joins the others - a heap of wealth that Midas himself would kill for.  
"The moment of truth," the narrator sends his right hand out like a whip, and grabs the deck as it travels over it. He offers it to Rouge, spread like a fan. "Pick one." It's an invitation she cannot resist.

Two minutes later, she draws the card beneath his index finger, and a grin spreads across her face as she looks at it.  
He retracts the deck, and seamlessly draws two cards from it, which he places face-down next to his other three.  
"I'll allow you the pleasure of being the first to rock," he leans over the table, and it's revealed for an instant that he wears an odd jacket - right side's white, left side's black - and a purple tie.

Rouge smiles like an imbecile, then proceeds to demonstrate her superiority.  
The first card flips over to become an image of Rouge smirking; eight of diamonds. Second card; a broken glass, nine of diamonds. "I can see where this is going," the narrator comments as Rouge flips her third card; the dirty window, ten of diamonds. "Should have seen this coming all along," he mumbles, but the bat's too busy turning her fourth card, eyes filled with glee; a red rose, jack of diamonds.

"I'm going to rape you so hard you'll never walk again," she declares as the fifth and final card turns to reveal a picture of someone with white skin, purple eyes, and long, silvery hair; queen of diamonds. Rouge cracks her fingers, twice, then mouths a kiss in the narrator's direction. "Can you beat my straight flush?"

"We'll just have to wait and see," he lines his cards up before him, then drags his left index over to the right-most card. He flips it over with his nail, and it bears an image of two doors; ten of hearts. Second one is flicked, and revealed to be a yellow rose; jack of hearts.

Rouge still doesn't look impressed, and yawns to show her displeasure.

Third card is turned slowly, and it's not pretty. A hill, complete with a tree and two people. One of them looks just like Rouge. "We're getting closer," he whispers as his finger finds the fourth card, which is also turned slowly. Scythe, stained red - the king of hearts.

She looks at him, at his cards, then at him once more.  
"Foreplay's over," her fingers play with her cards, and her head tilts to the left. "Let me see what you've got."

The narrator nods.  
"Certainly," fifth and last card, which he hasn't even looked at, is tapped once. "Are you ready?" Twice.

Thrice.  
"Ready as I'll ever be," a ray of light is reflected by perfect teeth, then the final card is flipped in a heartbeat. It's Rouge, barely a teenager, and she's running from something shrouded in darkness. Blood trails from several fresh wounds scattered all over her body. It's also the ace of hearts, and it means the narrator's won.

She's unable to stomach it, and quickly turns her head away, suffering and pain almost dripping from her eyes.  
"It's not easy being you. I can tell," the narrator whispers, then flips the ace over. "What troubles you the most, Rouge?"

Her face stays turned away.  
"The knowledge that no matter what I do, I'll still be less than a slut in the collective's mind and memory," she inhales loudly. "You know, maybe, just maybe, they were right - my parents, I mean."

"What about them?" the deck's gathered and slid down one of his pockets.

"Everyone protested when they planned on bringing me into the world," Rouge changes position once more, and this time she ends up with her feet on the table. It looks like she could fall out of the chair any moment. "Something about how I didn't belong, and that I would never get anywhere. When I look back at things, I can't help but feel that they might have been right, my dad especially, who never really approved of me, despite years of pleading, and a desperate quest to gain his attention."

"Your parents are idiots, same with your friends," they look at each other like there's something hidden behind their eyes that only they can see. "They fail to notice your true potential, and only use you for the lowest jobs."

She sniffs, then leans her head backwards.  
"I have a wish, and you just happen to owe me it," Rouge mumbles. The chair gives a few unhealthy squeaks beneath her. "End this, before it's too late."

His right arm disappears into the shadows that make up his torso.  
"Anything you'd like to add?" no words are spoken by either. "Then so be it." His arm's swung like a sword, and a card cleaves through the air, aimed at Rouge.  
She makes no attempt to avoid it, and it slashes through her throat. A silent gasp, a small smile, a spurt of blood, then Rouge falls out of the chair and onto the floor. The fingers on her left hand twitch, then she drifts away from the world of the living, in a slowly growing pool of red.

The card strikes the wall on the left side of the stage, and imbeds itself partially.  
It's the queen of hearts, but the image's changed, twisted itself slightly. The tree's still there, still on that same hill, but Rouge looks happy, and the other person has a face. They stand together, and a soft breeze blows the stranger's silvery hair around, just like it dances through the tree's leaves and branches.

Nothing and no one announces the inevitable commercial break, and the narrator's shrouded eyes are enough to make sure that everyone stays quite.

-

VT2 - 2006


	8. Fourth commercial break

* * *

Fourth commercial break 

-

SEGA of New Zealand brings you another blockbuster that is set to challenge the depths of your brain!

The Final Step - a surreal journey through the minds of rape victims and rapists everywhere.  
Embark on an adventure so twisted it ought to be banned. This is it, this is the one thing that not even Steve Irwin could walk away from unchanged.  
'But what about character interaction and storytelling?' you might ask. Well, there's some of that, too. Somewhere. Probably.

Who's the culprit? Who's the victim? Did it really happen? Can you solve the mystery before history repeats itself?

The Final Step - Available on fanfiction dot net - 2001-2006.

-

VT2 - 2006


	9. Sonicland gigolo

* * *

Sonicland gigolo 

-

The show returns once more, unceremoniously this time.

Rouge's corpse has been lays in a sad pile to the left of Shadow's, and no one seems to care about either of them.  
A certain orange fox has taken up residence in the blood-stained chair to the narrator's right, and he talks like there's no tomorrow.  
"And it was so simple, even a child could understand!" Tails proclaims while the narrator just nods. "You see," he reaches for one of two glasses, both filled with some sort of green lemonade, "that's how simple it was, yet Sonic didn't get it!"

"You should've realized by now that Sonic's an idiot," he's playing with a yellow paperclip and the card he used to kill Rouge, "unlike you. I still have no idea how you got so smart, since you never had an education - of any kind."

Tails gives him a lethal glance, then takes a mighty gulp of his lemonade. He somehow manages to spill half of it onto himself, but pays it no mind.  
"I'm a natural," he shivers violently for a second, and his teeth clatter loudly. The glass is set aside, slowly, "or at least that's what I tell myself at night, when I'm all alone."

"The only problem with that sentence is that you aren't alone at night," he leans forward, and Tails glares at him. "There's always someone, or something, there. It lurks in the shadows, and it wants you - your mind, body, and soul."

The fox shivers once more, and his teeth start clattering uncontrollably. A few spasms, then he's crawled into a ball, and it looks like he's trying to chew on his right shoulder.  
"I hate being me," two consecutive coughs, then he's calmed down significantly. Camera zooms up on his face, and it's revealed that he's not quite as fresh as people like to pretend. The white fur beneath his eyes has almost turned grey, and he looks extremely tired, not to mention worn and strained. "It's too complicated, the pay's shit, there are no benefits, and the hours suck." His small hands massage his knees.

A sigh, from the narrator's direction, who's now upright in his chair.  
"So, Miles," he almost whispers, "how does it feel to be you?"

His guest shines up, if only for an instant. A small speck of life returns to his eyes, then he stretches. It's obvious that he's getting ready to deliver a massive smack-down.  
"Like getting assraped by a well-hung ghetto-nigger with a sandpaper condom," he snatches the glass and empties it, then throws it over his left shoulder. It hits the stage, and two members of the audience are showered by fragments of glass, "several times per hour."

The narrator acts as cold as usual.  
"Plenty of both tearing and tears," he comments, and Tails looks strangely unaffected by his words. "At least you're not a willing participant."

Tails' teeth start clattering again.  
"First of all," his twitching left hand finds its way onto the table, "you do not want to know how right you are. Secondly," he takes a deep breath, exhales, then takes another deep breath. He carries around so much guilt and shame that it seems like it's only a matter of time before it starts pouring out of his mouth, "I don't have a choice in the matter - I never did, in fact."

"What's your favorite pastime, Miles?" the narrator reaches into his jacket, then pulls out the same deck of cards he used during the interview with Shadow. He calmly shuffles it a few times. "Any hobbies? Dreams, maybe?"

There's a loud sigh, and the young fox experiences a nasty facial twitch for a second or so.  
"Planning an escape route," he shifts around wildly, and this time ends up on the table, head supported on his forearms. "I want to be normal. I want to be someone else, someone who isn't me. Someone who's got more than just charisma, like Darth Vader, or a realistic incarnation of me. I don't deserve this. I don't want this. I don't need this. I'm just a kid; I'm not even a teenager, for fuck's sake!"

Two cards are placed face-down - one to Tails' left, the other to his right.  
"I know why you experience these mood swings, and I also know why you wear your suicidal air like a cloak, but," he points his left index in the direction of the camera, "not everyone's as skilled at reading people as I."

He sobs once, and a single tear trickles from the corner of his left eye. His hands are pressed together, and the fingers rub against each other frantically.  
"The things I have seen with these two eyes," he shakes his head slowly, and two drops of salt-laced water hit the table, "they just can't be explained, by either science, religion, or common sense. And the things I've done with my body." He drifts into silence.

The narrator sighs.  
Three more cards join the two already in play, and Tails looks on, amazed at the narrator's dexterity.  
"And that's it for part one," a sixth card's placed in the very center of the table. "Stay tuned for part two, which will be here right after these words from one of our many sponsors."

-

VT2 - 2006


	10. Fifth commercial break

* * *

Fifth commercial break 

-

SEGA of Ghettoland presents-

_in association with Blackest inc._

A Masterplan project.

Starring-

_Rouge Bat_

_Shadow Hedgehog_

_and Amy Hedgehog_

Directed by-

**Billy 'Vdogg' Lee**

-

**Girlfriends forever**

-

This epic piece is rated NC-17 for a reason, nigga! No girls allowed, or guys with weak guts. Only masters need apply.  
Despite the ladies' money-maka fetish, and despite the fact that they stain each other with white, sticky, sperm, it's still lesbian porn - yo.  
Fuckwad.

Ya dun belong, yall.

-

Girlfriends forever - available on fanfiction dot net and a certain author's harddrive - 2001-2002 / 2001+.

-

VT2 - 2006


	11. Sonicland gigolo, the second encounter

* * *

Sonicland gigolo, the second encounter 

-

Three morons decide that it's a good idea to clap their hands as the commercial finally ends.  
The stage's changed, warped even. Comfortable armchairs have replaced the simple chairs that once were, the table's now pure-white, and weird symbols have been carved into its wooden surface.

Tails' chair is still blood-stained, however, and the narrator's still busy playing with his cards. The paperclip seems to have vanished.  
"That was eerie," Tails mumbles. He suddenly decides to seat himself on the chair's left armrest. "What did that commercial have to do with anything?"

The narrator watches him tilt wildly in all directions.  
"That's a question we'll never have an answer for," he forms the six cards into a pyramid, aimed for Tails. "What's your ideal future, Miles?"

He almost tips forward.  
"Well," the remaining glass is snatched by his left hand, "I'd like something a bit darker, more mature. Something where people die and stay dead."

"Sketchy," the narrator whispers. The fingers on his left hand drum against the table's surface. "Give me something better, Miles." It almost sounds like a demand.

His guest takes small, slow, gulps of lemonade, then wipes his mouth on his right forearm.  
"Realism," the glass is set aside. "People die, but they also stay dead. Happiness isn't always present, and depression is rife, same with gore and violence, and the tone has to be very mature, like beyond anything you've seen." Tails gesticulates wildly, like always.

"I've seen everything," seventh card, placed at the bottom of the pyramid, "but I understand what you mean. You want them to respect you, treat you like an equal."

The fox nods twice.  
"Yes, yes!" he's very energetic, and snatches the glass once more, but with his right hand this time. "I'm tired of being laughed at," he slides down into the chair. A loud cough. "I want to prove that I'm just as useful and interesting as everyone else." His blue eyes fall on the narrator's hands.

"That your existence, up to this point, hasn't been in vain," eight card, placed to the left of the seventh. "But what about morals, ethics, laws, traditions, social rules, and that which is taboo?"

"I doubt that people possess, or even respect, any of those," a careful sip, followed by another one. "Try being me for fourteen years, and you'll know what I mean." He shivers, and his eyes roll around in their sockets, like he's about to experience an epileptic seizure.

"It's human nature," ninth card, carefully placed to the right of the seventh. He strokes his chin carefully, then his left hand opens to reveal the missing paperclip. "Humans are ugly, greedy, selfish, and self-destructive. They love hoarding, and guarding things jealously. If they can't have something, then no one else will."

Tails frowns.  
"They have no idea how ugly they really are, or have they?" a legitimate question, a gulp of green liquid. "I mean, if they knew, then they wouldn't do this, right? They would try to improve, better themselves, so that they wouldn't be crushed when they're judged in the afterlife - right?"

It looks like the narrator's smirking.  
"Wishful thinking," he places the paper clip on the seventh card. "Humans can't think that far. As long as they aren't explicitly told that what they are doing is wrong, then they will never improve."

The glass is set aside once more, and Tails looks to be in deep thought, like he's realized something horrible.  
"It will never end, will it?" his obvious question falls on deaf ears, and he lets out a sharp shriek before closing both arms around his head. The fox then proceeds to writhe around in the chair like a snake.

Sobs that should never have been uttered fill the entire locale, but the narrator looks as unfazed as ever.

"Forever, Miles," he calls out calmly, "this will go on forever, until humanity is no more," he flicks the paperclip, which flies straight for the fox and hits him on the left ear. His reward is a muffled cry of pain, and the clip, surprisingly enough, bounces back into the narrator's left hand. "You'll never sleep alone. You'll never spend a day unaccompanied. You'll never escape your nightmares - the things that reach for you in the night will only grow stronger over the years."

"There must be an end to it," Tails mutters through sobs and whines. He's crawled into a ball once more, and his face's completely covered by his arms. "There must be. I can't survive this much longer."

He taps the seventh card with his right index, then leans back in his chair, even puts both feet up on the table, right next to the cards.  
"Oh, there are ways out of it," the narrator calls out with a sigh. Tails immediately flips, and seats himself upright. He looks at the narrator like he's the new Jesus, "Miles. The only question is if you're willing to tread on them."

The answer, of course, comes as a shock to no one.  
"Yes, yes I am," his hands place themselves on the table, and his eyes dig into the darkness surrounding the narrator's head.

A violin plays, then things fade into darkness.

-

VT2 - 2006


	12. Sixth commercial break

* * *

Sixth commercial break 

-

Warning. Mildly disturbing content ahead.

-

Lost in the shadow that is my own mind, broken by promises from an earlier age.

I follow my own lead, and the path takes me past a field of razorblades. Drag myself and I along, simply because it's all we can do, especially at this point.  
When, where, how, why - questions without essence, bottom, beginning, and end, like my existence.

Who am I, what am I. Statements and questions pile around me, like the bodies of those I've slain. A river of their blood - a bridge crosses it, made from their bones. Flowers are fingers. Wind's strong, decaying, smells of rotten meat, and it flaps the diseased folds of flesh that serves as trees around.

This scene defines me in a perfect way, and I take my rightful place on the one bench that exists in the grisly land of my own making.  
Death's here, and I hear a violin play somewhere behind us.  
It's from the hill I fear, where the lost stir in their undead sleep. I know them all, yet I mustn't look behind, or walk that way.

It's simple, but at the same time not, like a great portion of my past.

-

Two - up on fanfiction dot net - Late November 2006-early 2007.

-

VT2 - 2006


	13. Sonicland gigolo, the third encounter

* * *

Sonicland gigolo, the third encounter 

-

"So," Tails mumbles, seated much like a ball once more, only his head's poking up, eyes locked on the narrator. His arms are clasped around his legs like belt buckles, "what can I do to end this?"

"Go out with a bang, one that will make them remember you," he shuffles through his pockets yet again. "It has to be very messy, very graphic, and very barbaric," his left hand returns with what looks like a utility knife of ivory, which he tosses onto the table.

It bounces straight over to Tails, who looks at the tool wearily. It's the cure he's always wanted.  
"Don't the christian church condemn suicide, and even treat it like a sin?" his right hand reaches for the knife as he speaks, but it stops maybe an inch from it. It slowly curls into a fist, which he taps against the table once. "Maybe it's better to live my life, and die like the rest. I don't know if I'm willing to go to hell over this."

"Forever haunted by faceless people. Their limbs want you, Miles," the narrator whispers, and his left index draws slow circles on the table's surface. "You know their touch by heart, how to please them without meaning to," the fox's face twitches violently twice as the narrator pushes his buttons. It looks like he's about to puke. "Oh, how you long for the deep-sleep dreaming, and a garden that is imaginary."

The words somehow energizes Tails.  
"I want my own field of paper flowers," he retracts his hand, and uses it to scratch his head. The consequences of his plan could be very dire indeed, "and a purple sky, filled with candy-clouds of lullaby."

"How about a moonlit legend instead?" he draws another circle. "Then you'll hear people cry out how sorry they are for not being gentle constantly."

Tails sighs, looks from left to right, then makes another attempt to secure the knife, but his hand doesn't even get onto the table before he retracts it.  
"Don't remind me of that thing," he's almost on the verge of tears again. "I can imagine what they've done to it. I'd probablybe right at home in the center of it all, where I'd be surrounded by the evil that it's become."

The narrator gently shoves the knife closer to Tails' table edge.  
"Wake up," he whispers honeyed words that make the fox moan. It's the messiest thing so far, "Miles. The winged ones are about to commit suicide, and you're invited," it ends up only centimeters from the edge, and Tails gives the narrator worried looks and glances, then snatches the lemonade glass for the third time using his right hand.

There's about a fifth left of it, and he looks down into the glass calmly, coldly.  
"I wouldn't cry if angels started committing suicide, you know," he shakes it, and the liquid almost spills over the edges. "If I knew the whereabouts of love, I wouldn't be this sad. I would have someone there, someone who would understand, try to fix things."

A sigh, then the narrator taps the table three times with each index finger in turn. It makes the knife bounce towards Tails, ever so slightly.  
"You can't hide the scars, and the keys were left behind long ago," a final tap, then the knife's balanced just on the edge of the white, wooden table. "It's time to start believing in yourself, Miles. It's time to start making your own decisions."

He brings the glass to his lips then drains half of it in two gulps.  
"You're right, of course," he brings the glass up high, then slams it down into the table with a mighty blow. Pieces of it scatter everywhere, and he severely cuts his hand. "You're always right - and I know that's a fact," Tails leans his head forward, and slowly tilts it towards the narrator, who returns his gaze. There's something new hidden behind those eyes, now, something that wasn't there before. "My brother was a fucker, my mother the same. My father forsake me, me and the rest of my kind. I wasn't even allowed to exist in his thoughts, and only now do I realize I don't need him, or them."

"You're getting closer, but there're still things left to do," he plays with the paperclip, but their staring contest remains in play.

"The moonlight makes me want to cry," Tails confesses. "It's so innocent and soothing. It's everything I've ever wanted, the best friend I never had - the lover I'll never know, and the family that wasn't there for me," he sighs, then frowns. His face forms a mean grin. "It makes me poetic, even, brings out the real me."

"Please" the narrator motions with his left hand, "do continue, Miles."

Another, louder, sigh, but the grin remains, same with the stare.  
"As I sit in my chair of white wood, I can do little but wish," he mumbles, even starts squeezing his right hand. The sound of crunching glass fills the air, and blood trickles from his gloved fist onto the table. "I want to be reliable, I want people to feel that they can trust me," he squeezes harder, and his face twists itself into a grimace. "As I lie there, there in bed, I feel the longing overtake me," unhealthy scraping sounds, indicating that he's pushed pieces of glass into the bones of his tiny hand. "I wish for emotions; I wish that I was someone else," he finishes his poem by reaching out with his wounded hand and closing it around the knife.

It stays there, this time.

"Build your own world, Miles," the narrator whispers, then leans back in his chair, arms on the armrests, "to escape your nightmares. Show them that you are not weak."

The fox presses a button on the knife, and the blade pops out. It's covered in the same weird symbols as the table, and it looks incredibly sharp.  
"What do you want to tell the world before it comes crashing down around you?" the narrator asks while tossing the paperclip over his left shoulder.

Tails looks to be in thought, planning either something awe-inspiring or macabre.  
"That I was naive for believing that the world was a good place," he plants the blade on his left wrist. "That I was wrong for thinking that somewhere, out there, someone was waiting for me, someone that relied on me and my talents to be happy and fulfilled."

Loud frown.  
"Life's a bitch, Miles," he lifts his right hand slightly, "then you die. I'll see you up ahead."

"Yeah," Tails mumbles as the blade eats into his wrist with ease. Blood quickly starts seeping from the wound like a small river, but he's not energetic enough to die from just one cut, so he twists the blade around and cuts alongside the vein as well, "probably. It's the way things are, I guess," he calmly passes the knife into his left hand. "Can't have everything, or," he makes two blur-like slashes across his right wrist, then carves alongside the vein on it, too. The wound gushes for an instant, and a sudden eruption of red strikes him in the face, staining the white, "in my case, you'll get nothing," then he places the knife in the exact same spot that he found it.

He slowly inches his way into a more comfortable postion, but it's obvious that he's disappointed.  
"How come I'm not dead yet?" both hands are placed on armrests so large that they dwarf him. "I thought this was supposed to be a quick thing, over in a flash."

"Normally it is," the narrator puts both hands together, "but you are a bit too calm for that kind of suicide. You'll need to open some more critical areas."

The young fox looks at him, puzzled. The blood- and pressure loss is getting to him, and it's obvious in his face, which is losing color beneath the fur.  
"Like what?" the narrator doesn't reply in a direct fashion, rather, it looks like he's smirking, then he slowly passes his left index across his throat. Tails catches on instantly. "Oh, I see," he's got the knife back in his left hand in less than a second.

Blade's pressed against his orange throat, but that's about it.  
"I have one final thing to say," the fingers on his right hand tap the table - an imitation of the narrator. "Not even seeing a constellation of countless shining stars up close could make me regret this decision."

Life ends.  
The sharp metal effortlessly slides through the thick skin and muscles surrounding the veins and windpipe, and his breathing grows erratic as it slips closer towards dangerous territory. Face distorts itself into a combination of a grin and a smile. A stream of blood gushes out in all directions as he hits a vein, but it does little more than stain him, the table, and the chair a nice, crimson shade. The liquid pools below him, and he looks set to collapse from shock, but manages to fight it quite admirably. He shivers once, gasps, but doesn't let up even for a second, and saws onwards.  
He keeps splitting, and drags the blade all the way to the other side, through windpipe, veins, skin, muscles, and sinew, blood and pain his rewards, then he gives the narrator the biggest smile he's ever shown anyone, waves with his free right hand, and falls face-forward onto the table with a final high-powered spurt of gore, like that from a water hose, that covers close to everything but the narrator in red.

His body spasms twice, then he falls silent and still.

"Oh, Miles," the narrator shakes his head, "I'm so very proud of you."

Without further delay, the show fades to black once more

-

VT2 - 2006


	14. Seventh commercial break

* * *

Seventh commercial break 

-

Warning. Mildly disturbing content.

-

It all comes down to this.

"He's here, somewhere," their captain, a pale-skinned human in his thirties, cries out. He gesticulates wildly, and I watch him and his unit from my vantage point in the ceiling. "Spread out, but don't go far."

They split into three teams of three - suicide - then the captain drags one team with him and disappears out of sight.  
It's messy up here, ancient cables joined by decades of dust, and even an outdated porno magazine, but I don't want a conflict - not now. Not today.  
Today's not a good day for taking lives.

Two teams remain; a total of six people.  
"So," a helmeted someone, female judging from her voice, enters my view, her green armor is the epitome of personal defense, "just who is this guy we're chasing, anyway?" A cigarette's lit by another somone, and a plastic helmet's set aside.

"It's the slayer, of course," an ancient, male voice mutters. At least three people take long, deep breaths, and the unmistakable sound of bolts slamming into place fills the air. "That's why there's so many of us. It's to try and balance things out, you see. Not that it matters in the end, but the big guys really love throwing unwanted people at him."

The female coughs.  
"I thought the slayer was a myth, an urban legend," metal-clad feet tap the floor, and another cig's lit, "or do you know something that we don't?"

"It's the cuts," he remarks. Someone unscrews a canteen, then proceeds to down several mouthfuls of liquid. "The cuts and the precision used, not to mention the brass he leaves. He's got a quicksilver - targets are blown apart, armor's completely ignored. You can't fight him up close, either, since he's got a knife that shouldn't be."

"Mobian?" another, younger, male chimes in. A blade's scratched against one of the concrete walls.

"Like you, son," fingers are snapped, then the old guy empties the canteen. It's discarded quite noisily onto the floor. "See, he's a highly skilled remnant from ancient times, as proven by his knife." He drones on, lists exaggerated achievements, and censors some of my more famous acts.

I love my profession.  
Employer assured me that there would be no obstacles, that the way out would be completely clear, and absolutely guaranteed that there were no guards around.  
Get inside using the supplied fake papers, snatch the case, exist.  
Smooth, seamless, perfect.

"And that's why he survived when everyone else died," lies. "We only need to find him, then, with our superior numbers and firepower, he'll be dead and buried in minutes, or at least that's what I'm supposed to tell you." He's a realist, and I admire him for being one.

People cheer, some high-fives are heard.  
A male cat, decked out in blueish combat armor, face shaved, paces below me in a small circle. Quickly decide that it's the one the old guy talked to.

Forced to wait and hide.  
How very typical and unprofessional.  
Situated some six meters above the floor, held in position by my arms and legs, case safely grasped in my right hand. Disguise was useless, same with all other tips the fat idiot provided me with.  
Luckily, I didn't listen to most of them.

"When will Terry show up with the big guns?" a fourth, very young, female voice blurts out. A loud smack is heard, then something that's both heavy and made of plastic hits the floor.

"Shut up! He might be listening!" it's the old man, who just happens to be the smartest henchman ever employed.  
Cock my head from left to right, judge how much strength I've got left.

The pacing cat comes to a complete halt, but doesn't turn around to face the group.  
"Jesus, you don't have to hurt her," he mutters. The fallen bitch gets up, and I can hear the sound of her kneepads scraping against the concrete floor. Someone decides to stretch and yawn.

Two more minutes, at the very max, then I'll have no other choice but to drop down and surprise them.  
Only now, after fifteen minutes of hanging, does the sweat start to trickle down my forehead.

Love this.

"We should head out," the old guy calls out. Cigs are discarded and stepped on. Two people spit in succession, someone yawns once more. "Maybe we won't have the pleasure of running into him."

Walk. Move.  
Away, disappear. I'll get billed big-time if I kill even a single one of them.  
Pearls crawl their way down my muzzle, but stop on the tip of my nose.  
It's all good. All the time. Every single day.

Watch in horror as the drop grows.  
They pass, one by one, until it's only the cat left. His steps are very slow, very strained, and he probably knows that something's wrong, amiss, out of place. He doesn't look up, and I actually allow myself to believe that, yes, the mission will be a success, that there won't be any more blood, death, tears, or sorrow. It grows further, and he slows down even more, even stops directly below me.

But things just can't work out, no, that's against the rules. Out of both pace and phase.  
And then it falls - a single drop that could destroy the whole world. Deadlier than any sword, any gun, any bomb, because I'm involved.

It strikes his left ear, then his gaze turns upwards, but I'm already ahead of him.

He's hit in the head by the falling case which I decide to forget for the time being, then my right foot touches down on his left shoulder, almost tipping him over with my weight. There's no way to avoid this, and I'll have to fight.  
Eagerly.  
The left one lands on the back of his head as he falls forward, and the world slows down to a crawl all around me. I've got the knife in my right and the quicksilver in my left, and I've even emptied a round into the base of his skull before he's even realized I was there.

The recoil's awesome, grants me new life, and the detonation shatters his head into a thousand pieces of bone, and a gruel of gray and red splatters all over the floor and walls, and I want more of it. I need more of it. I deserve more of it.  
They've barely had time to react, and I'm so very far ahead it's sickening - as always.

Rifles blaze, the bitchy female human fires a grenade which is way off, and impacts with the floor somewhere behind me and the corpse, and out of nowhere I hear the familiar sound of my casing hitting the concrete. It bounces, then I'm away, assured by it.  
Somehow, for some reason, I'm bounding towards them on the right-hand wall, like a stalking predator, out for an easy kill. Brass fills the air, and they shout for dear life, but it's no use. Metal clatters against concrete and steel, dents it, ricochets. The area's sprayed by tiny fragments of bullets and a mix of concrete.

First one, the ancient, withered human, stands in my way, and I hit him head-on, like an angry titan from my childhood tales.  
His throat's opened up by a flash of silver, and I slide into a crouch. My left leg goes out, kicks him off his feet, and I watch him fall backwards, his dying body weighing down a female fox armed with two shitty handguns. She screams, but it amounts to nothing.  
The loss of their leader disorientates them, and I grab this opportunity to cause carnage with both hands.

Spin out of the grenade launcher-wielding human's way. She stumbles past, almost falls forward, and I bring my knife up high, then I drive it down into her neckjoint with so much power that she probably dies from the impact. There's a gurgle, a light spurt of red, then nothing more, and I retract the bladed tool just in time to twist around and block a bayonet aimed for my chest.

It's another mobian, like I. He's got one eye, the left one, about two teeth, and no helmet, and since everyone else but he is busy, there's no reason for me to not enjoy the show.  
Turn my gun around, then bring it down onto his forehead. There's a satisfying crunch, then his entire head whips backwards. Something broke, and I'm to blame. The only way to set things right again is to relieve him of his pain, and I advanced after him as he drops the rifle and clutches his face.

Another whack, to his left temple, sends him flying into the left-hand wall, and his face leaves a nice smear on it.  
Spin around to confront the fox, who's switched to a large knife, blade ornate and finely detailed. Dagger veteran.  
She impales herself on my knife, sharp end lodged in her chest, right in-between her breasts, and in the only crack her armor had.  
Give her a grin, then she stabs me in the left part of my chest, even twists the blade around with a triumphant cry of victory. We're getting somewhere, finally.  
I see no other alternative than to bash her to death. Arched blow, from the right, hits her just above the left eye socket, and completely destroys it. Her head, just like that of my previous foe, whips, but she can't stumble away from me, so I strike again, and break her lower jaw in half with a sweet snap. She spits teeth, but then she's back to her old self.

Knife's withdrawn, and I'm kicked in the stomach so hard that she slips off the blade. Angelic freedom. A human would be dead by now, but we're different - more durable, tougher.  
She swings at me like it's not about life anymore, but proving who's the best. The final one, a young male human, appears in my left eye's corner, armed with a chainsword. It's an impossible situation, one that should not be escapable, but I've got an ace left.  
Throw myself backwards, to my right, past the human.

As predicted, they both stumble into each other, and his sword falls on her right shoulder. A second passes, then it's more ground meat than a shoulder.  
Flip the gun around, ranged end pointed at them, then I take careful aim at the fox as I pass through the air.

She looks at me, and I look at her, and I see all the horrible things I've done, and I know that this is another one of those faces that I'll have to carry with me until the end, just like my cross.  
And then I fire, and the projectile slices through the air like a spear. It catches her in the throat, just below her chin, her bloodstained chin, covered by plush-like brown fur, then it detonates, and she disappears beneath an ocean of tears and pieces of what was once a female fox.

This is my life.

This is my pleasure, my dreams, my hopes, my imagination, and also the things I hate. This is what I'm best at.  
Taking lives wasn't supposed to be this easy, or this free of guilt.

-

One - up on fanfiction dot net - Late November 2006-early 2007.

-

VT2 - 2006


	15. Revenge of the Sue

* * *

Revenge of the Sue 

-

Tails lies very dead on top of Rouge, orange and white fur clogged by dried blood, and Shadow has stopped bleeding - finally.  
It's not as messy as expected, but that could change any minute.

The fact that the narrator's pacing back and forth next to his collection of corpses seems to indicate that there's a high probability of more gore waiting in the very near future.  
"Well," he begins, then shuffles through one of his pockets, finally returning with a tiny piece of paper, "since schedule's changed, I'm supposed to bring in an unexpected guest - someone who's painfully out of both pace and phase." He motions to the right of the scene with his left hand.

A single person decides to cheer, but she's quickly silenced by no less than twelve pairs of fists.

"I don't know why he's here," he mumbles, "or what he's supposed to be, but he's here, and that's a fact we'll all have to live with."

People mutter, and it's clear that they have no idea what awaits them.

The narrator sighs, long and hard.  
"Get in here, you ugly idiot," he snaps the fingers on his left hand, and it's so loud and sharp that several members of the audience grab for their ears.  
As if on cue, a silly human walks in. He's decked out in a very cheesy suit that looks like something from Tron, and wild, flowing, brown hair covers his head. Brown eyes observe the general area, but they're clueless, and no depth is hiding behind them. He's flawless, and sports muscles that neither of the human genders should ever be capable of possessing at his age, even if they've been fed steroids since before they were born.

A matter-of-factly look's thrown first at the audience, who boos and hisses, then at the narrator, who responds by staring at him for a few seconds.  
"Yo," the human mouths after a good minute of uncomfortable staring. Only now does the narrator show his displeasure by clapping his hands. Slowly. "So where's the badguy, and the sexy chick who needs a desperate rescue?"

It's messy. Very messy.  
"I'll answer those questions in time," he spins around on the spot, left arm out and pointing at the bloody chair that everyone of his guests have occupied, at least temporarily. "Have a seat, unless you prefer standing."

The human nods in the traditional fashion; that one which is shared by all male anime heroes ever conceived, and he even bows, which creates mysterious shadows all over his face, but only in the right places. They add to his already flawless appearance, and someone in the audience pukes.  
"Sure, friend," slow, heavy, manly, steps - a total of six, then he seats himself in the stained chair, arms folded neatly across his chest, head turned slightly to the right so he looks like a Marvel hero. The chair squeaks loudly, clearly not used to bearing such a perfect specimen of man, and if chairs could cry, this one would.

To counter the muscular fool, the narrator literally slides across the floor over to his chair, then effortlessly slips down into it. He crosses his legs, and it looks like he's got a massive, disgusted look on his face, even through the dense shadows that cover it.  
"Hello, Corey," each and every letter of the name is almost whispered. "Seems one of my guests went missing, and that's why you're here," he covers himself like an expert, and not a single trace of any known emotion remains in either his speech or body language. "I'll allow you the pleasure of introducing yourself, oh mighty savior of hedgehogkind."

"Yeah, yeah, that's all good and obvious, but" he swallows, leans forward, head supported in his right hand, "what should I call you, extremely pale-skinned one?"

"You can call me Josh," the narrator snaps back. "I'm not pale-skinned; it's worse than that. But enough about me," his right hand slips into his jacket and returns with one of his decks - the one with a bloodstained card, "tell us about yourself and your achievements, preferably your achievements as a person."

"Well," Corey scratches his chin a few times, "it began when I was young, and I realized that I was different. Not like a homo, or anything like that, just different," the narrator mouths words as Corey speaks. "And it was all about my past, you see, about how I was different. " A loud cough, then he drifts into silence.

Josh, also known as the narrator, calmly places the deck on the table, shuffles it, spreads it like a fan, then picks the most central card, and gently lays it down in the center of the table, face-up. A silver handgun, much like the one he lent to shadow; seven of hearts.  
"So what was so different about you," it's not so much a question as it's a statement. The human tries to look enigmatic by assuming the classic thinker's position. Another card, the left-most one, is drawn and placed to the right of the first. It's an ancient and withered tree, an oak; four of diamonds. "Please, I'm dying to know."

Corey shines up, finally.  
"Oh yeah, now I remember," both armrests are tapped slowly by his colossal fingers. "I was special, because I'm not just human - I'm superhuman, a saiyan. A roughly human-looking creature from beyond the stars. I can crush worlds with my powers of destruction, and grunt and groan for several hours - without breaking a sweat."

The narrator is neither intimidated nor does he appear to be impressed. Third card joins the other two, a skull with a big crack on its forehead; six of diamonds.  
"Grunting must be very important to you," a fourth is drawn, but it's placed face-down to his left, "especially when big, shaved, muscular men, that are also well-oiled, not to mention ready for all comers, are involved. Probably has something to do with their aryan features, as well; pure, yellow hair, blue eyes, perfectly toned muscles that defy the laws of nature, and a massive stature."

"You could say that," Corey admits without realizing his mistake until it's too late. The entire locale fills with the audience's laughter, and most of the female spectators decide to flash the narrator their tits. Something unusual happens, and what looks like a gigantic sweat drop, colored blue, and shaded in only two colors - dark blue and white - appears on the left side of his massive forehead. "Well, I didn't mean it like that. You know, like that. Yeah. No." The drop vanishes without a trace.

Josh raises his left hand into the air, and the audience dies down.  
"Don't worry, Corey," he draws yet another card, which is covered by nine leaves of varying shapes and colors; four of clubs. "They're not the ones who do the judging, I am."

"That's kinda good to know, friend," Josh grinds his teeth as the f-word is spoken for the second time, but keeps playing with his deck. A grim one, that of a diseased and very pale horse, appears as card number six; king of diamonds. "You know, I've saved the world on several occasions, and ever at my side is my main man Crash, and my team of awesomeness; Sonic, Tails, and Knuckles, because only men are fit to fight, since only men can develop bulging arms that look like tree trunks."

"Actually," Josh almost sings the words, "they can't - it's what the japanese want you to believe. The human upper arm, for instance, has a total of two muscles, not eight, which is the average number of muscles you'd find in any comic book worth its salt. Although if you consider the biceps to be two muscles, and the triceps to be three, then it has five."

He looks stumped.  
"Surely, you must be mistaken," he flexes his arm, which has about ten muscles on the upper arm alone. "See? I told you so - you are mistaken. Just look at this baby," he pats it affectionately, then brings his head in real close to it. "Dad's got some nice oil stashed away for you, honey. It's been so long, I know," he whispers the words, then pats it again, "oh, baby, do I ever know. A man needs no woman when he's got an arm this big, firm, fast, and powerful."

"I can hear what you're thinking," Josh's face has planted itself on the table, and it's revealed that he's quite thinly built, like he's little more than a skeleton beneath his attire, "and I don't need to point out to the audience what you use that arm for when no one's looking."

The previously mentioned audience cheers once more, but it's even louder this time. Tits, dicks, and asses are all bared and smacked, and some flowers are even tossed on-stage, along with a large, assorted, collection of underwear, t-shirts, and bras.

Corey looks dumbstruck again, but it's not his turn to act.

Josh grips the left edge of the table, then swings himself around and up to a standing position, like it's second nature to him to perform flashy acts.  
He slithers around Corey's chair like a snake, and it doesn't look pretty. Everyone drops into silence.  
"You're a very hollow person," he declares. "You lack a real personality, one that doesn't scare people away. You fail to amuse even children, and yet you keep coming back for more, like it's everything you have. You could mend your ways, better yourself, but you don't want to, do you?" He caresses the leather chair, and it gives several muffled squeaking sounds.

"Why would I want to change when I'm this mighty?" he remains seated, and doesn't appear to be bothered in the least by the manlike serpent called Josh, who slinks around and over him and his chair constantly. "I mean, take a look at me! I can defeat anyone with one punch," he raises his mighty left arm towards the ceiling, and gasps are heard from the audience.

The narrator comes to a halt just behind Corey, and slowly leans everything above his waist into the chair, and partially onto Corey.  
"I love your neck," his gloved hands pass over it without making contact. The right one's black, the left one's white - like the rest of his dress. Corey visibly shivers, despite the fact that the narrator's fingers never touch his skin. "Just look at the veins and ridges, not to mention its compact design. It's like someone stashed eight people on top of each, squeezed them to juice-filled skin, then stuffed everything that remained into your neck and shoulders."

"It's shotgun-proof," Corey proclaims proudly. Sarcasm is wasted on him. "Twelve-gauge won't even dent it, eighteen might give it a tiny bruise, and twenty-four could, potentially, scratch the surface, but I doubt it."

Josh's feet move slowly, but the rest of his body doesn't, same with his general speed. He's placed himself in front of Corey in less than a second.  
"I've always wondered what it is about fighting that attracts you and your kind," he makes an elegant spin, and ends up on Corey's left, where he promptly seats himself on the adjacent armrest. "Is it the fact that they're doing what men should: fighting and charming ladies; or is it because they embody a strength of both body and mind that you will never have?" He draws something in the air above Corey, who doesn't notice it in the least.

"It's the power," Corey confesses. "The power to crush your enemies, whether they be real or imagined. It's part of our genetic programming, the mental ghost we're born with, and we'll take it with us to the grave. It's just the way things are, and I don't think there's a way to fight it."

"Oh, but there is," Josh stretches, then slides across Corey's lap and onto the right armrest. "There are several, in fact, but I'll only list the six most common. One's called progress, the other is called mind, the third is often known as ego, number four is hobbies, fifth would be professional help, and the sixth and final of the common ones are known as understanding," he pats Corey's dumb head twice. "Of course, someone who possesses your superior hand-to-hand combat abilities obviously have little use for academics, language skills, high-tech fields, understanding, an open mind, tolerance, or even a realistic view of things."

"That's right," Corey replies after not even a second of either planning or thinking. "I know that everyone who doesn't agree with me is inferior, especially if they don't agree with my views."

Josh's fingers drum against the human's skull, and things could go wrong at any moment.  
"That's natural, until someone comes along and pokes fun at all your faults, and stuffs your bigotry so far down your throat that you'll never be able to eat anything solid again," the drumming stops, and he looks down at the pathetic creature of muscle that is little else. "Change is bad for you. Change will make you see things that you fear, like the true face of love, the ugliness of humanity, and the colors of life."

"Your riddles bore Corey," the hunk calls out. He hasn't fought anything since the show began, and it's clearly taking its toil on him, because all strong, pure, men need fights to survive, like they need submissive heroines at their side, that can cast healing spells, good ale to drink, strong platemail to wear, sharp swords to hack and slash with, and muscles to adore and worship. Not to mention all real, pure, men's perverted enjoyment of corny languages that sound like someone mashed all Scandinavian ones together, mixed, then played them in fast-forward for hours upon hours. "Corey demands a challenge."

"Is that all?" Josh whispers as he slides off the armrest, then takes a step backwards, so the massive giant called Corey can stand up. "Well, then, look behind you."

He does so, slowly. Ever so slowly, his entire body turns at the pace he gets up, then he lets out the most annoying sound-effect ever recorded, which has been re-used and re-recorded for no less than a decade by shady figures, located in dark basements on a far-away island, populated by complete idiots.  
"Why did you kill everyone, Josh?" he sounds sad. So very sad. Almost as sad as he turned slowly, if not slightly more, even.

Josh, ever the calm gentleman, has no intention of starring in one of Corey's wet dreams.  
"Someone decided to make an example out of them," he almost spits the words, "and I'm not one to argue with powers that are beyond my reach and control."

Corey turns once more.  
He scratches his head a few times, then a few times more.  
"Oh," he finally blurts out. "But that's not nice, and they weren't even muscular, or worthy opponents. I fail to see your logic for killing them."

"Corey," Josh shakes his head, "I'm going to butcher you, now, because you have no right to be."

As the words reach his ears, Corey undergoes a personality change, and his muscles slowly grow even larger.  
"You can't kill me!" the fool cries out words of lies, "I'm Corey! I have big muscles, and a suit that gives me superpowers! I can kill you with my kamehameha wave, times ten! I can outrun Sonic, and I make sweet, sweet love to Amy on a regular basis!"

"That's just it, Corey," he doesn't appear to be armed in any physical way. "You lack anything that would make you interesting, and that's why you have neither friends nor enemies. I'm doing you a favor by interviewing you. Now the world will know that you died on the set of the best show known to all creatures who dress in flesh," he points his right arm at Corey, like it's a weapon. "You have a face, now. People know who are you."

"Everyone will remember me for my powers!" he bursts out, and advances on Josh like a true, white-and-red, japanese hero. "I am Corey! I am famous! I have powers beyond your imagination, and I can kill anyone who isn't already dead!" He poses like only muscle-fueled heroes can, with silent grunts, flexes, and the ever-present neck of death.

"I counter your muscles with in-depth knowledge of all living beings, and the ability to accurately foretell the future," Josh says, and swiftly goes down on one knee, then draws a circle around himself, which begins to shine blue-white faintly. "I counter your loud mouth and obnoxious superpowers with planned and carefully executed strokes of death."

Corey smashes his fists together, but says nothing more.

A total of eighteen symbols circle Josh, all shining with an inner blue-white light.  
"I'm perfect, flawless, in an interesting, yet disgusting, fashion," the narrator draws a tilted cross with his left hand, which somehow stays in the air. It, too, glows. "You're out of phase, Corey."

"I'll show you phase!" Corey cries out. Two seconds later, he's standing upright with a clenched jaw, his hair is slowly turning yellow, and the stage beneath him erodes quite rapidly, due to a golden aura that somehow appeared around him. "You can't stand before the might of an enraged, battle-ready, saiyan!"

It takes awhile, but Josh lets him play the hero role, like he's so used to doing.  
"This could take several hours, if I remember correctly, which I of course do," he tilts his head backwards and glances at the camera through the shadows. "This thing will be settled after a nice commercial."

-

VT2 - 2006


	16. Eight commercial break

* * *

Eight commercial break 

-

The hedgehog that loves lazers just as much as he loves his first name, Manny, has finally announced his latest masterpiece.

Sword!  
A story of obscure penile references, unintentional sexual innuendo, and motivated by the purest of the pure libido.  
Of sharpness.

Follow a young man, as he battles through life as you've never seen it battle before. Dragged screaming from wherever, and forced to fight whatever, to prove that there can be only one - sword of sword, not immortal. Well, he is kind of immortal, but it's not the same thing.  
For example, if you cut his head off, he won't di- well, okay so he will die. But still. It's not the same thing, I assure you.

An apocalyptic climax awaits, one where man has to battle woman for the place of superiority over all living things that wish to make war, not love, or wish to make love, but rather choose to make war. It's all pretty complicated, but it works in the end.

Sword - available on fictionpress dot com - 2005+.

-

VT2 - 2006


	17. Return of the Mary

* * *

Return of the Mary 

-

A dumb block of text clearly states that Mary is neither holy, nor a virgin, although the latter could probably be discussed over a warm cup of coffee with the Mary in question, whose last name isn't Holy, Virgin, Saint, or Jesus, but Sue.

The camera's zoomed-out, and focused largely on Corey, who's gained a ton of muscle mass, in completely silly places, like the final inches of his forearms, the throat, not to mention the sides of his abdomen, and his arms are even larger. Oh, and he's also lost the upper part of his suit, since it was ripped when he 'powered up.'

Josh's sitting inside his circle, playing with another of his decks.  
"Have you risen from your grave and rescued Zeus' daughter yet, Corey?" he looks fatally bored.

"Soon, Josh, soon," Corey replies in-between grunts and moans. He makes the biggest mess known to humanity each time his mouth opens. "I'm getting there - just a bit more."

"I wonder," the narrator mumbles, "just what would happen if your opponent decided to not give you fifty minutes to prepare. You know, like in regular battles." Someone in the audience decides to whistle after Josh's made his remark.

Corey grunts louder than usual.  
"It's part of an ancient honor code, you fool!" he declares like his life depends on it. "When people go super saiyan, you show them proper respect by waiting, even if you'll lose your life at the end!"

A single card's pulled which bears a weirder image than usual.  
It's Tails, who stands alone. Both the foreground and the background are filled with faceless creatures, all of whom, for some reason, look like they want to put more distance between themselves and the fox.  
"Pariah," he comments, and it's possible he's got a mean facial expression concealed beneath the shadows. "It's one of my favorites, because it always fits the mood," he takes his eyes away from the card, then turns his head in Corey's direction. "Done yet?"

"The process is complicated!" Corey shouts through grunts. "I have to grunt for this thing to work, otherwise it could go wrong, and my ki-energy would, most certainly, destroy the planet in a heartbeat!"

The narrator sighs, and achingly slowly rises to his feet. Muffled pops are heard as he spends an instant stretching.  
"Well," inhale, "that's just something we'll all have to live with," both his arms come alive at the same time, the index of each hand aimed for Corey. "We'll start this easy, nice, kid-friendly, even," left index draws a cross, right corner joined into a triangle by a line, "and we'll gradually slip into more uncomfortable territory." His right hand draws a circle, broken at four places, like an invisible X has been planted inside it.

The yellow-haired one stares.  
"You can't hurt me," confidence brims from within him. "We saiyans have built-in defenses against low blows, such as those usually struck at us when we're powering up."

Because he's tired of the game, Josh doesn't pay his words even a moment of his time.  
"Your first name is rain," the cross vanishes, and Corey starts to spasm violently, "and your last name is vain." Corey's face twitches as the circle disappears, and it looks like he's chewing on his tongue. Surprisingly, he's sent higher into the air, like something's pushing him towards the ceiling.

Shock and awe erupts in the audience, and muffled whispers fill the air.

"Remember, Corey," another tilted cross is drawn, and his foe stops spasming. Two seconds pass, then the human falls face-first towards the stage, "you can only get better." A loud thud is heard as he slams against the floor.

Corey, now a heap of limbs and inflated muscles, decides to spit euphemisms.  
"Darn it!" he pounds the floor twice, and his head twists itself in the narrator's direction. "You cheated! You have no concept of either honor, duty, fairness, style, or the value of raw, physical strength, and you didn't even feel like swallowing my claim of super-secret defenses!" Another pound.

Josh nods.  
"You're not one of my creatures, Corey," he motions for the human to stand, and, just like everything else Corey does, his recovery is slow, gradual. "There's no reason for me to feel anything, give anything, or show anything when you're involved," he spins on the spot. His left arm ends up pointed at the floor, and his right hand lands on his right thigh.  
It's an invitation of sorts.

Corey looks a bit angry, but still hasn't realized the cold truth. Eventually, he ends up on his knees.  
"Your riddles add nothing to the fight at hand," he shakes his head, then stands to his full height. If stature was the only thing needed to win the game called life, Corey wouldn't even lose to god. Oddly enough, he seems to have gained a few inches.

Things could be determined in a flash.  
"You've got twenty seconds to prove yourself," Josh declares, "then it's over." His right arm's drawn like a pistol, hand lifeless, and he points it at Corey again, who simply stands there.

A tiny stopwatch appears in the bottom-left corner of the screen. Twenty.

Corey defies all natural laws by teleporting over to Josh, then striking for him with his right fist, which would, quite easily, crush brick walls. Eighteen. It doesn't break through the circle, but a single symbol withers and dies. Seventeen.  
He spins around, and delivers a vertically arched kick, but his leg bounces back, just like his fist, chipping away another symbol. Sixteen.

Enraged, Corey leaps backwards, and lands on the far-right of the stage. Fifteen.  
"Enough!" he cries to the heavens. Both his arms are sent forward, hands cupped, then he slowly pulls them back towards his torso. "Do not make a fool of me!" A bright light pierces through the cracks formed by his fingers, and he takes several steps backwards, ever pulling his hands to the left of his chest. Twelve.

Josh raises his right hand, fingers spread, but not a word is spoken by either combatant.

Powerful gusts of wind force several small items to orbit around Corey, and the light emitting from within his hands intensifies. Eight.  
"Kame," the shine turns into a mighty, yellow light, that threatens to blind everyone who looks at it. Seven, "hame," his hands start to shake, then they're pulled apart, revealing a dazzling orb of pure energy. Six. "Ha!" with a mighty thrust, both Corey's arms are sent forward, and his attack is unleashed on the world. Four.

And everything looks set for death, but the narrator doesn't seem to care, even as the beam cleaves through the stage and heads his way. Two.

One.  
"Failure," Josh calls out, and time all but stops. His hands move at a speed that should not be possible, and the palms meet each other before his face. Left hand's sent down to his chest, where it draws a cross across his shoulders and torso, while the right one curls into a fist, thumb extended, and passing from his forehead down to his chin, then it repeats the motion previously conducted by his left. "Ignore."

As the words are spoken, the beam turns transparent, and the sound it made while it tore through the stage dies. It passes straight through him, like it was less than air.

He snaps the fingers on his left hand, then swings his right arm downwards. A short, black-bladed knife appears in it, and the circle fades to nothing, along with the symbols.  
Suddenly, he's no longer standing in the center of the stage, but right in front of Corey. Two slashes make themselves comfortable on Corey's chest; streaming from his shoulders to his hips. Only now is he showered by a mixture of metal dust, wood particles, not to mention the pariah card, which cleaves a line across the left side of his face. The human doesn't even have time to raise his arms to defend himself before Josh's performed a wild backflip - also known as a flashkick. Both his feet hit Corey so hard on the chin that he's sent flying.

It doesn't end there, however.  
The narrator's on Corey's chest before his feet's fully left the stage, and his left foot plants itself on the human's face with enough power to rattle a handful of teeth lose, and probably fracture his lower jaw. He steps off of Corey, grabs him by the waist using his left arm, slides himself in behind him, then his left knee meets Corey's back right between the shoulder blades, but the pain from the previous hits still hasn't registered in the human's mind.

Josh dives for the stage, lands on his left palm, and effortlessly balances on it. Still out of time.  
Both his legs are sent upwards, and the combined force crushes Corey's ribcage with a loud crunch.

Despite the violence that's taking place, everyone present decides to preserve the silence.

The narrator rolls a short distance, and actually manages to end up in a standing position, while Corey lands some ten meters away, writhing around on the floor like a snake.

"This is impossible," he gasps, his fatal injuries clearly don't even bother him. "How can I, the most worthless, yet overpowered, person ever to exist on my homeplanet have been defeated by a mere fool, who plays with cards, and draws weird symbols in the air? I'm supposed to be invincible!"

Josh spins around, and his shadowed gaze falls on Corey.  
"You forget, Corey," he almost whispers, "that your master isn't the best of the best, unlike the one who made me. I'm just too planned and properly based for you to handle, not to mention awe-inspiring."

Corey crawls around a bit, but decides to seats himself against the wall.  
"I am a super saiyan!" he states quite loudly, like the way he fought didn't make it painfully clear. "I cannot die! I will respawn in heaven, with king Kai, and all other idiot's who've died, and I'll get a silly halo as well! I'll return, and then I'll kill you with my shin-kamehameha wave, times twenty!"

"Silly indeed," Josh whistles. "Any last words, Corey?" His feet slide together, and his arms are raised and reached away from his body, which turns him into something that resembles a white and black cross.

"You can't destroy power incarnate."

Horror has no face.

Corey gets up, somehow, and tries to say something, but his words aren't carried by the air around him, then his movements slow down, until time's completely stopped.  
A sudden arctic blast strikes him, and he turns to a human icicle in less than a second, followed closely by a phenomena that cannot be explained. It literally rips through the audience, and all that it touches wither and slough away in seconds.  
It makes its way onto the stage, and shreds half of it to pieces before vanishing through a newly created hole in the background, leaving Corey as little more than a mountain of Corey-shaped ash.

The narrator is nowhere to be seen, but hovering above Corey is someone wrapped in a cloak of perfect darkness. Bands of shining stars and galaxies show through every seam, and it wears upon its head a pure-white harlequin mask, twisted into a cruel smirk. Both the eyeholes and the mouth are empty, black, and nothing seems to exist beneath the darkness.  
The cloak's thrown aside, and everyone touched by the wind its movement made shiver. A white glove slowly reaches for the mask, and the ash that was once Corey looks terrified, like he hasn't been killed yet.  
"Guilty," the figure announces as the mask's partially removed. No one dares to look at the things that lurk beneath, but the saddest and most painful cry ever recorded is emitted from the ash, then an unearthly breeze scatters it all over the stage.

The show fades once more.

-

VT2 - 2006


	18. Ninth commercial break

* * *

Ninth commercial break 

-

SEGA of America gives you Reflections.

Follow several minor Sonic characters, as they struggle through a maze of deceit, pain, and delicious rape, all the while watched by a minor Sonic badguy!  
It's a winning concept - why, just look at Big Brother, and all popular programs currently aired on the Swedish television network.

Are you a bad enough dude, alternatively girl, to sit and stare at your screen as fifty-plus chapters slip you by?  
Of course you are.

Or are you!?

Reflections - available on fanfiction dot net - 2005+.

-

VT2 - 2006


	19. Phantom Prowler

* * *

Phantom Prowler 

-

The location seems to have changed, completely this time. All corpses remain, but the decor's been swapped, and the stage is whole again. Two more chairs have joined the three already placed around the table, and a number of non-descript soda cans line the white wood. In the background, behind a massive window of purple glass, the silhouettes of several people, complete with various instruments, stand vigil.

A tiny mound of ash rests to the right of Shadow, crowned by a certain card. The audience has grown, like an entire regiment waited in the background to take the places of those recently deceased.

"Welcome back," the narrator greets the camera. He's seated in his chosen chair, legs planted on the table. Uncharacteristically enough, he doesn't appear to have any toys in his hands for the time being. "The next guest is just as much loved as it's hated, and most find it to be, bluntly, in the way of things," he points his right hand at the left of the stage. "Welcome, Shadow stalker."

Each and every audience member boos and hisses as a collection of metal cylinders, cables, wires, cardboard boxes, and pieces of scrap metal inches its way onto the stage. Mechanical protests and whines echo throughout the locale, and they're loud enough to successfully silence the audience.  
"Greetings, fleshbags," its mouth, which is little more than steel grating, mutters words like a true machine, and a small opening located in its back trails an extremely long strip of paper - presumably a copy of all words it's spoken during the present day. "This unit has been called to an exceedingly crucial gathering; a gathering which is not to be treated as, or considered, a jest."

Wheels on its bottom slowly propel it towards the narrator, and two pincer-shaped items protrude from its upper torso, which consists of a metal box, with maybe ten flashing lights scattered all over it. The manipulators turn wildly, and it looks like someone's controlling the thing from the inside. The narrator yawns.  
"Why don't you step out of that thing so we can see you?" he asks, but his question's almost drowned by the amount of noise the machine makes.

"Riposte," the collection mutters, followed by some bleeps. "The unit you are adverting to cannot subsist without its hardware. It is a physically impossible action," a few clicks, more bleeping, then it comes to a halt in front of the bloodstained chair. "Inquiry; what cause do you have for conveying this unit to its present position?"

He sighs, frowns, then taps the table with his left heel once.  
"I just want to know your thoughts," his right foot topples a soda can. "The things that go on behind the steel mask, in particular."

Mechanical whining. A sudden burst of steam's released from a vent located on the top of the robot's head.  
"Galvanizing," two seconds of loud clicks follow, then almost a minute of bleeps. "The unit concords to provision refutations to your enigmas, but only if its avowed personhood is not revealed."

There is no reply.

"As anticipated, the biomass has been subjugated by the conjunctive efficacy of chilling logic and ferric artifacts," it states. The right pincer twists around a few times. "In verity, this unit is but one of many entities that make up the aptly coroneted 'shadow stalker.' Its confessedly nature rests securely extraneous relative to your aspect, fauna, but be warned that it will endeavor to conquer the conclusive ascendance of the current res publica in the approximate ulterior."

Silence.  
"You know," the narrator sinks into what looks like a more comfortable position, "I've heard some strange and disturbing rumors about you and Monopoly boards," he stretches. "Care to comment?"

"Falsehood!" it calls out, and four green lights mounted on its head start flashing. "Wholly erroneous, the unit ascertains you. Intimate ties with boardgames do not cypher, nor do they extend to anything generative. Furthermore," the left pincer extends, grasps a soda can, slowly rises once more, then disappears into the robot's torso, soda can and all, "bruits constitute bruits for they constitute bruits."

He taps his thighs.  
"You love it when things are too complicated for their own good," he tips over another soda can, with his left foot this time. "Being big is good for you."

Yet more mechanical whining. A head slams against metal inside the robot, and eight bolts roll out from underneath the machine.  
"Intelligibly," loud gulps, more bleeps. "One must take deliberate guards so that all arcana spoken are excessively sophisticated for the ecumenical populace to interpret, differently one might materialize to be rather gooselike, nescient, and broadly simple."

The band decides to play some tunes, and the show slowly fades way, way ahead of schedule.

-

VT2 - 2006


	20. Tenth commercial break

* * *

Tenth commercial break 

-

SEGA of Sweden presents, much like a virgin ass is presented in prison, Jungle Cock.

It's so explicit, violent, in-your-face, and epic that even ancient, gnarled World-war two veterans cry when its name is mentioned!

Join Sonic, and weep as he struggles to survive in today's society. However, he has a secret.  
He is the inheritor of an ancient evil that's so powerful that only one mortal being may carry it at any given time.

Jungle Cock - available on fanfiction dot net - 2006-2007.

-

VT2 - 2006


	21. Phantom prowler, take two

* * *

Phantom prowler, take two 

-

A junky instrument, that could be a guitar, plays, along with a drum.  
Someone decides to whine out words about being in shock, or going into shock, mixed with some weird japanese words that don't belong.  
Strangely enough, the song is actually quite good.

Large, bold letters at the bottom of the screen spell out a mix of apologizes, technobabble, and time-schedules.

The narrator spares no time.  
"Educate me with your inhuman wisdom," he spits the words as the show returns for real. "What elements make up good art?"

Loud thumps, grinding gears, and someone silences them with a squirt of oil.  
"Error; query not ad hoc adequate for an arrant counter-strike. Dawdling to low temperature principles," more lights flicker, and almost a moment passes. It sounds like someone's turning pages of a giant tome within the metal structure. "Solution attained; the unit has adjudicated that flesh-A deficiencies to cognize the perplexities of constituting pure of psyche, carcass, and essence. The solution is to maroon the frame, for the soma is decrepit. Entirely orthogonal, an estimable bit of codified fine art comprises a substantial cerebration, in the contour of a plot, an equilibrized circle of personas, wholly recounted and enshrouded in exquisite english, no vernacular, prosaic linguistic processes, or chat format."

It makes sense to no more than eight people in the audience.  
"That's interesting," the narrator mumbles. His right foot tips over yet another soda can. "So what defines an idiot?"

Two loud beeps, some clunking.  
"Olympian noesis unacceptable by those of superior faculty," another can's snatched and swiftly vanishes into the machine's torso.  
Gulping sounds, some mechanical whining. Tiny pieces of metal roll around inside the robot.

The narrator taps the table once with his right heel.  
"what about rules and regulations?" the final two cans are tipped. "Wouldn't responsible people, like most adults claim to be, have no need for either?"

A single light starts flashing red for no apparent reason.  
"Comeback: surely, you must be jesting," the audience laughs mildly for almost one minute. "Rules are bête noire to the mentally gainsaid."

"We can always hope so," he's one of few who understands the robot. "Care to give me an example?"

It steals yet another soda can.  
"Don't bite bricks," a hatch on the left side of its torso opens, and a small screen pops out. An extremely shitty flash animation plays on it, consisting of about seven frames and stock sound. Two humans, one male, one female, stands around and chews on bricks. "It is a cosmic pattern."

Second tap.  
"They'll keep chewing until you hit them in the head with something solid," third. "Like reason, or the truth."

The screen retracts, and the robot emits several seconds worth of unhealthy mechanical grinding. It looks like it's waiting for him to speak again, but he doesn't seem willing to oblige.  
A minute passes.

Two.  
"And the rest is dental history," the narrator finally comments. "Fortunes have been made that way."

Another soda can's stolen by one of the pincers, and they both slowly disappear into the robot's torso.

"So," he mumbles. His right hand finds its way inside his jacket, "what, exactly, do robots know about romance, sex, love, and understanding?" It returns with a set of six white dice, their six sides adorned by weird symbols.

Slurping.  
"Hypothetically verbalizing," the robots whines. Something rolls around inside it, "software is fault-proof, dissimilar to the umpteen inauspiciously-fated perturbations of tissue that most cosmoses of logic are founded upon. Thence, it is leisurely to conduct that mechanics are never awry, and noesis is perfect in wholes like the presently active utterer."

He cuts straight to the chase at hand.  
"What about same-sex relationships?" someone whistles.

"Humanity," the machine drones, "is a bêtise, and deviations ought to be forestalled." At this point, the audience splits in two. One half decides to boo, the other half cheers.

One die is tossed onto the table, and the white thing bounces twice before coming to a halt inches from the robot. A blue spiral covers the top side.  
"what drives you?" his voice is low, almost like a whisper.

"Temporal warp applied science," low humming follows, "logistics corresponding the cohesion of two-hundred-and-twenty volts of self-possession as intimately as the most inauspicious faults that this unit had the theoretical fortune of experiencing and subjugating in austere trauma or mentally relocated otherwise." Only one creature present understands the robot's words.

The narrator sighs.  
"Is it possible to please someone as perfect as yourself?" second die's tossed, and it, too, bounces twice before coming to a stop right next to the first. It's symbol is an upside-down cross.

Green lights flash, and another burst of steam's released from the robot's head-vent.  
"Candid disambiguation error-wise with stochastic factors," the silly robots drones. Someone, who's obviously not impressed by the fancy language, yawns loudly.

He's getting bored, and it shows.  
"Is it wrong to hate those that have been proven, repeatedly, to possess a lower mental capacity than yourself?" he leans forward, then sets his remaining dice aside next to his right leg.

"Hatred," a sudden blip, "is irrelevant when connoting coerced destruction."

A handful of idiots clap their hands, but they're soon silenced by a superior force of idiots who don't approve of the robot's views.  
Within moments, a war has erupted within the audience, but the narrator doesn't appear to care even slightly.

"Counted in human years," he mumbles, then taps the right armrest with his corresponding hand, "how old do you consider yourself to be?"

It clicks, and some sparks fly from its wheels.  
"This unit does not appreciate being equated with erroneousnesses."

Chairs are swung like clubs by angry onlookers, and a virtual hill of moving limbs and angry faces has taken shape in the center of it all. Most of them hoot like angry monkeys.

"Last one," another tap. "Will you tell the audience what kind of gear you possess?" It looks like he could have a fat smirk concealed beneath the shadows that guard his face.

The reply comes without delay.  
"A pail of bolts, two liters of oil, four serial cables, one magnetic storage device," more sparks fly, from the head this time. It's like someone's sitting inside and scratching pieces of metal together, "and a compounding of the reply you wish to discover obliterated at the closing of your query."

Synths and guitars come online in the band's direction, and a male voice starts singing about crystals, honey, and love, then things fade once more.

-

VT2 - 2006


	22. Eleventh commercial break

* * *

Eleventh commercial break 

-

SEGA of Sweden presents another mind-bending story of love-hate relationships, mixed with somewhat detailed robot trashing, suggestive themes, and Halloweenish...things.

Are you a bad enough dude, alternatively dudette, to challenge your own perceptions of 'cool'  
Behold, for things are rarely what they seem - or so they say!

Shake - available on fanfiction dot net - 2006-2012.

-

VT2 - 2006


End file.
